As an Italian, I put myself at the head of the band who proceeded to call
on the pilgrims, who, in my opinion, must either be fanatics or rogues.

We found the lady sitting in an arm-chair, looking very tired. She was
young, beautiful, and melancholy-looking, and in her hands she held a
brass crucifix some six inches long. She laid it down when we came in,
and got up and received us most graciously. Her companion, who was
arranging cockle-shells on his black mantle, did not stir; he seemed to
say, by glancing at his wife, that we must confine our attentions to her.
He seemed a man of twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. He was short
and badly hung, and his face bore all the indications of daring,
impudence, sarcasm, and imposture. His wife, on the other hand, was all
meekness and simplicity, and had that modesty which adds so much to the
charm of feminine beauty. They only spoke just enough French to make
themselves understood on their journey, and when they heard me addressing
them in Italian they seemed much relieved.

The lady told me she was a Roman, but I could have guessed as much from
her accent. I judged the man to be a Neapolitan or Sicilian. Their
passport, dated Rome, called him Balsamo, while she bore the names of
Serafina Feliciani, which she still retains. Ten years later we shall
hear more of this couple under the name of Cagliostro.

"We are going back to Rome," said she, "well pleased with our devotions
to St. James of Compostella and to Our Lady del Pilar. We have walked the
whole way on foot, living on alms, so as to more surely win the mercy of
the God whom I have offended so grievously. We have had silver, and even
gold money given us, and in every town we came to we gave what remained
to the poor, so as not to offend God by lack of faith.